Page 2 of A Forgery of Fate

I wanted to deny the stealing, but we had a rule in our household, and that was never to lie to family. “I only did it once,” I admitted. “Maybe twice.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I saw a painting of the Twin River Mountains inside Aunt Lili’s bakery, and they looked like two pears next to each other. She said she bought it for thirty jens.” I waved my arms. “Thirty jens! I wanted to tell her I could draw them better, for twenty.”

“Could you?”

The corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. My pride would be the end of me. “Yes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled out of Baba’s throat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Balardans have art in their souls, Tru. I was hoping one of my girls might paint.” He unrolled the leather case he kept on his belt, and his fingers danced across a set of carving knives before they landed on a slender paintbrush. “Here, to get you started.”

I held the brush between two fingers, surprised by its lightness. It was white and pointed, like the tip of a horse’s tail, and the handle was made out of bamboo. I’d seen a dozen like it in the marketplace, but that Baba had bought it for me made it the most special in the world.

“The hair’s made out of weasel,” Baba said, looking a little sheepish. “Not very elegant, still it makes for the sharpest lines. You’ll need that in a magic paintbrush.”

“A magic paintbrush?”

“A game I played when I was a boy. I’d paint anything I could dream up: flying sailboats, birds that could tell stories, and lanterns that never went out.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Then I’d say, ‘Magic paintbrush,’ and they’d all come to life.”

“Truly?” I breathed.

“Well, not truly,” Baba confessed. “It’s a game of imagination. A game where the only rules and limits come from here.” He tapped my forehead.

I exhaled with wonder. “Then how do you know who wins?”

“The best games have no winners or losers.”

I pictured playing with my sisters. All Fal would wish for were dresses and jewels, and Nomi—my thoughts turned tender—she’d want a mountain of books. My youngest sister was a genius; at four years old, she could already read better than Fal and me.

“Use the brush to paint what’s real, or paint what isn’t,” said Baba. “So long as painting it makes you happy, that is the best practice.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you, Baba.”

“My paints are yours now.” He brought the wooden ship forward. “Think about which colors you’ll use on it. One day, if fortune permits, it’ll be a real ship that we’ll sail together.”

“If fortune permits?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “We make our own fortune, remember?”

He laughed. “Indeed, Tru. So we will.”

In the weeks that followed, “magic paintbrush” quickly became my favorite game. Every afternoon, my sisters andI played while Mama read foreheads and destinies in the kitchen.

Nomi adored our games. Fal did too, though she’d never admit it. She’d hover over my shoulder as I brought to life the talking fish and singing trees from Nomi’s stories, casting a critical eye on every stroke. Then at night, we’d squabble over the ship I’d paint for Baba. Fal wanted it to be pink, Nomi purple. In my dreams, it was always blue—like the endless sky over the sea—with phoenix wings that were powered by starlight. As soon as I grew up, I’d sail it with Baba and take on the world.

Little did I know, fortune had other ideas for me.

It started with my hair. Soon after my tenth birthday, it changed color overnight. “Bandit blue,” my mother hissed when she saw. A damning sight anywhere in the city—I might as well have been born with three heads and an extra pair of arms.

Mama was devastated. She sought potions to turn my hair black again, but magic was expensive and hard to come by, so instead she’d make all manner of concoctions for me to drink.

Nothing worked. No tonic, no dye, not even a hat could fully hide the electrifying blue of my hair, and cutting it only made it grow back faster. Secretly, I loved it. Unlike Falina, who’d inherited both Mama’s and Baba’s best features, I wasn’t worth looking at twice except for my hair. The whispers it got aggrieved Fal, who wished she didn’t have anything to do with me. Naturally, that only made me love it more.

By the time I was thirteen, its color was so bold Baba joked that if he could make it into a dye, we’d be rich enoughto buy a house on Oyang Street, where only the wealthiest merchants owned manors.

“How can you jest about a thing like this?” lamented Mama. “Her marriage prospects are ruined.”

“Wonderful,” said Baba. “She can come sailing with me.”

Mama stared at him, aghast. “Maybe in Balar, you barbarians would make an adventurer out of a girl, but here—”

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